


The Palace of Aulendil

by Maitimiel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Mutual Pining, Númenor, Vanimeldë tries to be suave, gladly she fails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8241802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maitimiel/pseuds/Maitimiel
Summary: Vanimeldë takes her best friend to see something beautiful and unexpected conversations ensue.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/gifts).



_"Meet me in the afternoon at the same place as before. I'll be wearing blue."_

 

Isilië looked around herself, crunching the small piece of paper inside her hands and biting her lips. She had been waiting for a while now, the hot sun making her sweaty and uncomfortable. It felt like every last person on the wide square was watching her as she walked down the market and back again, deliberately pretending to look at the produce as she tried to catch a glimpse of Vanimeldë in the crowd. _Tar Vanimeldë_ , she corrected herself, with longing and frustration.

She dried her hands on the sides of her dress, wishing she had had the mind to wear linen or cotton instead of velvet that day, and possibly something sleeveless too. _Afternoon. What does that even mean? One? Two? Four in the afternoon?_ Isilië hoped not, but was in no way certain. That if the queen even remembered she was waiting for her. Maybe Vanimeldë had gotten distracted by something else and forgotten about it entirely. _Something, or someone_ , said her treacherous mind, and Isilië huffed, and then looked sternly a passerby who seemed far too interested in her troubles. The man immediately started walking again. 

With much more anxiety that she was willing to admit to, she leaned down to examine the neat piles of different spices a wrinkly old lady was selling at her stall. The crone smiled benevolently at her from beneath her dark cape, and Isilië wondered how could she possibly stand the heat. There were delicate vanilla buds carefully wrapped in small tissues of linen, and slender sticks of cinnamon tied together with string. She picked a small handful of dried star anise seeds and brought them up to her nose, breathing in the familiar scent. 

"I hope you're paying for that," spoke a smooth voice behind her back, tinged with a hint of laughter, "It is rather rude to manipulate merchandise you have no intention of buying."

Isilië fought down a blush, feeling her heart on her throat. "Of course," she answered dryly, and turned hastily to the stall owner to purchase what she had touched.

Vanimeldë waited for her, hands clasped together in grave serenity, but smilingly playfully at Isilië. She was wearing silk instead of velvet, in a mix of many shades of blue with silver trims and buttons. It was a beautiful piece. Her face was partially covered by a flimsy veil, and yet Isilië wondered how was it possible for anybody not to recognize her immediately. Something about her was as familiar to Isilië as her own hands. 

The queen offered her an arm when she finished shopping, and Isilië took it without hesitation. That was how their encounters usually went: Vanimeldë would set up a date and meet with her publicly, before guiding her away to a more discreet location. They had been at private gardens full of colorful and sweet-scented flowers, and quiet tea houses that remained empty for the whole time they were there. Once Vanimeldë had taken her to a friend's home where she kept all sorts of exotic birds, some tiny and soft colored, some big and bright. They had flown around them, and perched on their shoulders and arms. Isilië had laughed like a child then, and the queen had promised to bring her back someday. One time they made a very short boat trip around the town. 

So they walked with arms linked around the Meneltarma. Few people were out, save for those who were shopping. Isilië could feel that Vanimeldë's skin was heated as well, but the queen remained unperturbed. She moved as graciously as if she was dancing, and she barely spoke as she guided Isilië towards a small, seemingly abandoned house on the base of the mountain. She opened the gate and stepped inside, waiting for Isilië to follow. 

The garden around the house was bare compared to others the queen had taken her to. She observed the small succulents crowding on the corners, pale flowers springing out of them like ghosts.

"Disappointed?" she looked up to find Vanimeldë watching her with amusement.

"Not at all! It's just..."

"There is more than this," the queen laughed and pulled Isilië by the hand towards the back of the house, “You needn't pretend."

They entered what appeared to be a shed for gardening tools. The cool darkness was a relief after compared to the blazing sun, and isilië couldn’t see much for a minute. When her eyes got used to the darkness, she realized what it was Vanimeldë had wanted to show her. On the opposite side of the door, cut into the very mountain, there was a large portal, adorned with sculpted vines and flowers. On each side of it, a stone child stared at her with empty eyes. The humidity had stained their faces, like trails of tears that went all the way to the floor. 

"Do I have your interest now?" asked Vanimeldë in low tones, lifting the veil from her face and picking up an oil lamp.

"What is this?" Isilië peered into the darkness beyond the portal. She could only see a few paces ahead. A cold mist seemed to rise from the floor.

"An art gallery. A secret one, of course." Vanimeldë held the lamp high and indicated the dark path in front of them. "Shall we?"

Isilië wasn't sure she wanted to go in; if she had been alone, she certainly wouldn't. But Vanimeldë's smile was like a magnet, and before she knew it, she was holding the hand that reached her and walking into the darkness. 

Inside the cave it was quiet, terribly so. Isilië thought she could hear her heartbeat, and so Vanimeldë must too. They walked slowly, their feed slipping at some places. At first the walls had been close around them, but soon the corridor opened, and they could see farther with the light of the lamp. 

They stopped walking when they stood in the middle of what seemed a large oval gallery. In some places, where the darkness was deeper, Isilië guessed there were other portals, as tall as three men. There were no pillars sustaining the uneven ceiling, only a large, open space. But surrounding the walls there were many silhouettes, stone statues of forgotten people. The floor was even beneath her feet, almost polished. But the most impressive part of it was how the ceiling and the walls sparkled when the fire moved, like they were covered in precious stones. She turned to look at Vanimeldë, out of words, and met a knowing expression.

"When I first came here, I was astonished too," she said softly, but her words echoed, "That something so great should exist hidden in the rock."

"Who built this?" Isilië asked almost reverently. How many years it must have taken, how many men? 

"His name was Aulendil. He was a second or third son, one or two generations below Tar Minyatur himself. He would never be a ruler, so he dedicated himself to other pursuits. But when his nephew became king, he put an end to it."

"Why?" 

"Cause it was disrespectful to dig beneath the temple? Because he was afraid it would all collapse? Perhaps he just didn't want history to remember the time of his ruling by the palace someone built." her voice was playful but her expression solemn. Isilië looked up pensively.

"Could it collapse?"

"I don't think so. He didn't _make_ the cave. He just found it and sculpted it. He made it beautiful. Imagine how it would have looked, with its sculpted walls, windows cut in the stone to let the light in. If it had been finished, it might have been the most beautiful work of our people."

"You could finish it," Isilië suggested, shivering in the cold air. Vanimeldë shifted closer and put an arm around her shoulders.

"Now there isn't someone who could take the project. Or the funds for it. What do you think my rule will be remembered by?"

“Perhaps they might remember how loved you were,” Isilië said, leaning a bit towards Vanimeldë’s warmth, “Or the wonderful parties you gave.”

The balls of the queen were always events of greatness, of beauty. Noble men and women came from all Númenor to attend, attired as if they were themselves kings and queens. Sometimes they lasted for days. The tales invented by the common folk could but scratch the surface of what actually happened in the palace. 

“But you never come to any of my balls, my dear. How would you know they are something to be remembered?” Vanimeldë’s voice was very soft next to her ear.

It was true. At some point, Isilië had attended every feast, and enjoyed herself in them. But after she and Vanimeldë had become friends, she had started to see the beauty of public festivals and dances. There were less frequent than balls and usually happened to mark the seasonal events, a new harvest, the changing of the seasons, the blooming of the daffodils, Vanimeldë’s personal sigil. For these events too people would come from all over the Island, not only noble, but the common folk as well. Farmers, fishermen, smiths and merchants, all dressed in colorful clothes that were not, perhaps, as rich, but were wonderful in their own simplicity. Vanimeldë stood among her people like a goddess on earth, more beautiful than ever, arms raised high as she chanted alone. The people’s voices would then join hers, like a power who answered to her command. She would dance, she would laugh and she would lit the bonfires and put flower garlands on the children’s heads. She looked then more sincere, more like the woman who would take Isilië to see colorful birds and exquisite caves.

“I think I have lost my appetite for balls and dances,” was all she said. “They no longer appeal to me like they used to.” 

“Doesn’t your family worries that this will diminish your chances of finding a respectful, noble husband?”

“I think they hope you will find me one of even higher status if we become good enough friends.” it was only partially a joke. Vanimeldë didn’t laugh.

“Would you like me to?” she asked very seriously, with a note of concern.

“Oh, no. No, I wouldn’t. Though I suppose I will have to, at some point. Marry, that is.”

“Isn’t there anyone you might want to marry? If not a lover, perhaps a close friend?”

“You’re my closest friend,” she mumbled, surprising herself, and then pushed onwards, “Perhaps I would like to marry you.”

Isilië didn’t know gave her the courage to be so bold. Perhaps it was the darkness, or the solid warmth of Vanimeldë beside her, or the fact that they were at that moment as separate from the rest of the world as they were likely to ever be.

Vanimeldë was very still. For a moment she seemed to be holding her breath. When she released it, she released Isilië also and moved to stand right in front of her, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“If this is a joke, it’s a bad one,” she whispered with trembling lips as she looked into Isilië’s eyes with so much intensity she seemed to be looking for answers in them. “Tell me.”

“There is not much to tell, except what I’ve already said,” she spoke as if hypnotized by those clear eyes, “You are the dearest to my heart. There is none I love more.”

“I could not marry you. My husband would be strongly opposed to it, and someone needs to look at the realm’s accounts.” Vanimeldë seemed agitated, almost febrile. 

“I’ve said before that I don’t care for marriage,” through the surreality of it, a warm feeling was emerging. She had said it, and Vanimeldë had not scorned her, or worse, pitied her. She felt her resolve strengthen, “I only care about you.”

“Do you really?” Vanimeldë took both her hands in her own, stepping closer. “I feared I was chasing an illusion.”

“Why didn’t you ask me?” she had had no idea, not even a suspicion that the queen’s feelings reflected her own. 

“I could not. I didn’t want you to say yes for the wrong reasons.” 

Isilië moved forward into the arms of Vanimeldë. “What could possibly be a bad reason to be with you?”

“You could have felt coerced to accept me. Who would refuse a queen?”

“I wouldn’t want to refuse you. I have wanted you for years.” her own hands moved tentatively to the small of Vanimeldë’s back. 

“Have you?”

Isilië held her tighter. “Don’t you believe me?”

“I do,” Vanimeldë said fervently, touching Isilië’s face with warm fingertips, “I promise.”

When their lips met, Isilië promised too.

**Author's Note:**

> My next OFC will be called Anorië and then I'm out of names :):


End file.
